The Blue Eyed Hawk and the Brown Eyed Dove
by The Mad Squirrel
Summary: Sherlock might be dead, but that doesn't mean he can't discover Molly's biggest secret... Rated T for slight language and romance.
1. Bad Dreams and a Worse Reality

'**Lo, everybody! This story might not appeal to you as much as most, but you did click on it, so that's a good sign. This is my first one, so I hope you enjoy. Post-Reichenback, if I spelled that right. But who cares? It is my ficverse after all. And it is mine to command! BWAHAHAHAHAHA! (gets up and takes medication). Sorry about that, I have not been medicated yet today, and I see the clear effects are obvi- You know what? Screw it, I'm just gonna keep laughing. BWAHAHAHAHA! ENJOY!**

_Sherlock pulled Molly in close, kissing her hard. Sherlock was kissing her. Sherlock Holmes was kissing_ her_! The perfect pristine consulting detective was actually kissing poor, mousey Molly Hooper. She stood on her tip-toes and kissed him back. God, he was so tall. She could barely reach his lips. It was passionate in the extreme, delight over flowing inside her, churning and mixing and focusing in on the contact of her lips on his. _

_He moaned softly and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his warm embrace… But suddenly he stopped. She sank back onto her feet, looking up at him worriedly, wondering why. His eyes were wide with a concoction of curiosity and… oh God,_ fear_?_

_His hands on her back loosened, and then moved up to her shoulder blades. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What are-"_

"_They're nothing," Molly squeaked. Sherlock's hands moved up to her shoulders and he spun her around roughly. She cried out, trying to keep her footing as her legs twisted together. Sherlock grabbed the hem of her shirt in both hands and ripped. The blouse split then hung there formlessly, revealing them clearly. Molly turned back again to try and say something, _anything_, but Sherlock was backing away from her. The look in his eyes, anger over-powered by fear, the look they all gave her, sent a red-hot arrow through her heart._

"_Sherlock," she said desperately, but he kept backing up, staring at her coldly. It was like the look he had given Moriarty when he had pressed a gun to Molly's head, but now combined with furious betrayal. And now, it was directed at _her_. "Sherlock,"_

_He was turning, walking away from her, ignoring her. "Sherlock, wait," Molly nearly sobbed. This time, on her words he paused and tilted his head back to look at her. His beautiful, blue eyes, those razor sharp cheek-bones, that lovely, silky-soft mouth, Sherlock's wonderful, gorgeous face; a face filled with icey distain, and fear, and superstition, and _hate_._

_Sherlock smiled cruelly and said, "No,". Then he turned on his heel and kept walking. Behind him, Molly sank to her knees on the freezing, hard ground, her skirt billowing around her. She choked, "Please, Sherlock, _no_! Come back!" But he either didn't hear her or didn't care to look back at her, as she leaned forward and pressed her forehead against the ground, moaning as her whole body shook with her keening, wracking sobs._

A gasping, strangled scream rent the still air of Molly's apartment as she sat up ram-rod straight, clutching the sheet to her breasts, like it would protect her from the vision. She was panting and crying, hugging her legs and murmuring, "OhGod, ohGod, oh GOD." Molly's breathing calmed and she slumped back into the soft embrace of the down pillow. _It was just a dream, _she told herself tiredly, _Just a dream…just…just a dream._

The nightmares, or The Nightmare, Molly supposed because it was the same every time, had started a few months after she had met Sherlock Holmes. His beauty had struck her dumb, literally, she could still remember dropping a corpse on Stamford's foot after catching sight of the Consulting Detective. She wanted so badly just to be with him, for him to know she existed for him. But then the dreams came, and reminded her of what would happen if he found out. He would just abandon her like everyone else had.

But she had promised to herself that she would stop being so scared around him, and just be herself. But each time she was in the same room with him, she broke down and started stuttering like the blithering idiot he probably thought she was.

Or had thought she was. Because a month ago Sherlock Holmes had died, killing _himself_ by jumping off the roof of Saint Bart's. It haunted her like The Nightmare, because she had been in the front room of the third floor when he had jumped. And she had seen him plummet past the window, coat flapping and arms wind-milling. Sherlock Holmes; practically her only one reason for living that wonderful, smart-ass, beautiful man, had died. Died and left her nothing.

It didn't make sense for him to die. Suddenly the whole world had seemed darker and emptier than it had before. And it didn't make sense for him to kill himself, because as everybody had insistently pointed out over and over, "Sherlock Holmes loved himself far too much for that." But here she was, and he was gone, self-centered or not. He was gone.

But the dream kept plaguing her. It wouldn't let her rest, making her afraid of shutting her eyes at night. Because now it hurt more than it ever had. Because now, in the dream she could see the dead man's face again, kiss him, even. Then he would walk away, cold and hateful of her.

But she knew how to make them end. How to make The Nightmare go away for good. She would cut them off, like she had done before so many times. But this time, if they grew back again, and the dream came with them….she would kill herself.

**So what do you think? More will be coming, and I'm open for writing prompts!**

**Please comment, reading reviews almost makes up for the fact that I have no social life in any sense!**


	2. Here's Johnny('s Flatmate)

**So here I am again, typing away. Because frankly, if a moment of my life was not spent writing something it would be considered a complete waste. Special shout-out to AnnaGandalf, for being kind enough to say something to me. It means a lot. Enjoy!**

A few hours later Molly was wandering around her tiny apartment, making herself some breakfast. She had pulled all the blinds shut and had locked the door, ensuring that no-one could disturb her. She was not in a disturbance-welcoming mood. The Nightmare always made her feel horrible, and she just needed time to think. Alone. So she had closed her presence off from the world, and now was clattering around in the kitchen without her top on. Sometimes she just needed to let them free and not hide them by squashing them under her white lab coat and bag. It felt nice, and it wasn't embarrassing either, because who was there to see?

She leaned over and gazed in consternation into her near empty fridge. The shelves were bare except for some stale bread, a few hamburger buns, and some toast spread. Molly groaned and shut the door, resigning herself to another breakfast of power bars and office coffee. On her back, they flapped in response to her frustration, knocking over a plastic spice rack. It was cheap and wasn't holding anything, so nothing was broken as it clattered against the linoleum. Molly picked it up and set it back on the island, giving it an experimental twirl. It spun with a clack-clack-clack as it hit the plastic tab that was meant to keep it from going too fast.

With a sigh she ambled over to the well-worn fold out sofa and flopped down on it. She flipped on the tele and groaned at yet another report on Sherlock. She couldn't seem to escape him. He was dead, and she was alive and feeling terrible about everything. She could have saved him, dove out the window after him and got him safely to the ground. But she had been too afraid of what people would think of her. It was so stupid, when the man she loved had been falling to his death she was worried about preserving her public image. So, so stupid. And even if she had saved him, Sherlock would have walked away thinking she was a freak. But even then he would have been alive, and a scornful Sherlock is better than a dead Sherlock. Infinitely better. And she would have left and found a new place to live where no-one would know…a life without Sherlock. But whatever she could have done, she would still have been in this situation: living a Sherlock-less life of regret and misery.

Molly put her head on the back of the sofa, sifting through her memories of Sherlock. All the times she had seen him at the St. Bart's Mortuary, or, she chuckled at this, on the news in that stupid hat that the Consulting Detective had so loathed. But of all the memories she couldn't seem to find any in which Sherlock had been nice to her. Or shown that he was at all interested in any way. Except when she had had enough nerve to refuse to give him something he wanted or help him, and he had flattered her resistance down just to get it. And that didn't count at all. No, Sherlock had never been at all interested in the mousey pathologist. That was the thing she would wonder about until she was six-feet under; had Sherlock Holmes died not knowing that Molly Hooper loved him? Probably. He was a sociopath, he couldn't really see that sort of thing in others. His only deductions of her had always been cruel. But then on that one Christmas, he had kissed her. But then she had heard through internet rumors that Sherlock was dating "The Woman", and all her hopes had been blown to the darkest pits of Hell. She had known him almost five years, and she hadn't made an impression but then this woman had come along and suddenly Sherlock had personalized his phone so it sounded like…

"Uhf," she said, repulsed by the memory of the text alert chime. And she had gotten him such a nice new phone. He had barely used it; she had found it in 221B Baker Street when she had helped John clean out the worst of Sherlock's rubbish. It looked like it had just come out of the box. He had probably never used it because "The Woman" had the number of his other phone, Molly reflected bitterly. No, Sherlock had definitely never had a place for her in his…what had John explained it as? A "mind palace"? She shook her head. Sherlock bloody Holmes was the weirdest, meanest, clever-est., most sociopathic, idiotic, wondrous, smartest man Molly would ever know.

And he had never given two pence for her.

Her thoughts were broken as the doorbell sounded through her apartment. She scrambled madly for her bedroom, tearing her bathrobe from the wall hanger and whipping it over her. Tying it tightly to make sure they wouldn't show from the bottom, she hurried back to the hall and opened the door.

"Sorry it took so long, I was..." Molly began.

"Molly, hi. Could I possibly stay here for a couple of days?" Sherlock asked.

**DUN DUN DAAAAAH! What will happen? I don't know yet, I'm only human. Please comment, reading reviews almost makes up for my deplorable lack of a social life!**


	3. Too Many Questions, Not Enough Attitude

**Wow, OK. That didn't take several months. Sorry. Other things caught my attention. And, oh, Gott im Himmel! Thank you all so much for commenting! I am so happy you like it! Answers to some of the comments:**

**Musicchica10: All heck is going to break loose!**

**Nivion: Draw away!**

**LionessKeeper: Do you? (strokes imaginary beard)**

**Zora Arian: Yeassss, zee cleef-hangarr. Veery meesterious…**

**Everyone needs to go check out Zora Arian's story; 'Shock'. It is hysterical. **

**I love you all!**

Molly staggered away from the open door in shock. Sherlock was _alive_?! She started babbling, "What…why…how…you…dead…watched from the window…you hit the ground…died…OH MY GOD!" She flung herself at him and hugged him tightly, squeezing him hard. Then she dropped to the floor in a dead faint.

When Molly woke up she was lying on the sofa in the living room. Sherlock was leaning over her, hands resting on the back of the head-rest. He must have carried her here, she realized. A horrible thought struck her, had Sherlock felt her-

"You did not answer my question," Sherlock said placidly.

"What?"

"May I stay here?" Sherlock said slowly, as though he were talking to a four year old.

"Er…sure," Molly said rather breathlessly. "But how are you here?"

He didn't look at her, he had pulled out his phone and was texting somebody. He said, "Well, you gave me your address several years ago, probably hoping I would stop by because of my feeling some emotion towards you. I don't by the way, but because of my predicament I have no other choice but to ask for your help."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Molly said. Her voice was all shakey, like she was about to cry. Which she might, actually. At least, said a lighter-ish side of her mind (that she had secretly come to call Her Mind Mutterer) he didn't notice her…

"You were asking how I am alive. I am not going to tell you," Sherlock said, still typing.

"Oh. Well, I suppose that is your business." She giggled nervously.

He gave her a strange look. She almost fainted again. _I suppose that is your business_?! WTHell? What was she thinking? Sherlock was going to be staying with her, it was her business too.

"But…" she began, but Sherlock was in her kitchen, clattering something about. She stared incredulously at his back. "Sherlock!"

"Mm?" Sherlock didn't turn around, just kept clattering.

"You really ought to tell me."

He stopped and looked round at her. "Why?"

Molly swore she felt her heart stop in its tracks, turn around and hide behind the next available organ. Embarrassment was transforming her into a red-faced-loon with a tongue made out of slowly solidifying lead. She stuttered, "Well….er….I just think that….well... er…I….should….um….."

Sherlock kept his eyes locked on hers, looking a little confused (Sherlock's version of confused), then did that absolutely adorable nodding thing he did with his head when he realized something during a case. "Oh, I see. You think you have a right to know my plans because we plan to share a living space."

Molly shrugged her agreement.

Sherlock nodded again, then noncholauntly continued crashing about in her kitchen. "Well, you are wrong. I have no intentions of telling you, unless you slip something into my drink to force me to tell the truth, which you could possibly do, seeing as you seem to have taken to relaxants and other such drugs, possibly because of my supposed death, but I don't think you could bring yourself to do any such thing."

Horror brimmed over in Molly's mind. She thought she might actually throw up. Of course Sherlock would notice. Anyone would. It was why she had been cutting herself off from everyone. John, the doctor, or Lestrade, the experienced police-man would instantly see through her make up and bluffs, straight through to the half-glazed eyes surrounded by dark circles, her painfully skinny frame, and the constant head-aches and retching. She had just wanted a release from the sorrow and The Nightmare, so she had gone to her doctor and asked for…anything. But no matter what was prescribed, the sadness always flooded back via her Dream, which no number of meds seemed to be able to wash away. She was utterly ashamed of her recent addiction, and to have Sherlock bring it up….. It was actually practically his fault! She had been trying to escape him and her memories of him, and now he was mocking her for it! She was sure she was going to cry this time. She didn't say a word, but she turned her head away, putting a hand to her mouth.

"Sherlock," she whispered, "stop."

"Hm? What?"

"You always…."

"Molly," Sherlock cut her words short as he pulled a tin out of the sorry remains of what had once been a pantry, and looked at it closely. "You do realize that you kept your rat-poison right next to your food?"

She kept her body turned away from him. Why was this happening? She didn't know what whatever karmic or godly force was punishing her for, but what ever it was, her mind got down on it's knees and apologized sincerely for it. She heard Sherlock stand up, and the brush of cloth as he pulled some wrinkles out of his (pristine) shirt. "I've got to go, I should be back by tomorrow. Don't wait up." And before she could say anything other than, "Hhhh," he was out her door and gone.

Molly stood there for a moment, not quite coming to terms with what was happening. All of a sudden, Sherlock was alive, and here with her. She hadn't even thrown anything at his head for faking his death! (Yet). All of her dreams had come true.

"_This sucks_," she whispered into he back of her hand.


End file.
